


obiectio feris

by inlovewithnight



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gladiators, M/M, Slavery, consent issues inherent to the trope
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-03
Updated: 2015-11-03
Packaged: 2018-04-29 16:39:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5134955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inlovewithnight/pseuds/inlovewithnight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>obiectio feris - thrown to the beasts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	obiectio feris

**Author's Note:**

> From a prompt at thesinbin: "Jamie is one of the most renowned gladiators in all of Rome. After a particularly brutal fight, Jamie is given slave/whore!Tyler as a reward. Sex follows. Tyler has seen Jamie fight before this and is turned on by the prospect. Maybe other gladiators are watching them fuck and are cheering and making lewd suggestions. Top!Jamie preferred. Feel free to substitute Jamie with Jordie. "

The hours after a fight are always a blur to Jamie. He’s guided from the bright heat of the arena back into the shadows, his weapons are taken from him, he makes his way to the medicus either under his own power or being half-carried by the guards. He never comes back to himself until he’s back in the pens with his fellow gladiators, the familiar smell of sweat and shit and oiled leather in his nose and the warm sense of bodies nearby.

This time he finds himself sitting on his cot, his fingers worrying at the bandage around his upper arm and his tongue prodding at the empty, bloody space where a tooth was until the middle of the fight.

“Good fight,” one of the others—Spezza, Jamie remembers, Spezza—murmurs, setting a cup of water on the floor beside Jamie’s foot. “You impressed them.”

Jamie shakes his head and reaches for the cup. “Not enough, I suppose. I’m still here.”

“You’re too entertaining to be set free.” Spezza smirks. “Which means you’re also too entertaining to kill, so there’s that.”

“I think my next is going to be wild beasts, so be sure to tell them that, yeah? That they shouldn’t kill me?” Pain throbs along Jamie’s arm, cutting through whatever the medicus gave him. “Is my brother still out?”

“Yeah. His fight is next.” Spezza glances toward the gate, where the guards are loitering in boredom that means the clowns are still performing and there’s no fight to watch. “If you ask me he’s got this one in a lock.”

“From your mouth to the gods’ ears.” Jamie finishes the water and lies down carefully, staring up at the ceiling above his cot. Gladiators long dead—or emancipated, possibly, but in all likelihood, dead—carved and painted their names on these stones. The others still do it today. Jamie has never bothered. He doesn’t want this room to remember him.

**

Jordie wins his fight as well, and without injury. The relief promptly sends Jamie to sleep for a few hours.

He’s shaken awake by one of the guards, and when he sits up he finds that there are _five_ guards in the pen with them, blades drawn, forming a corridor that holds one of the factors who holds the title to the fighters—and, at his side, a slave.

The slave is not a fighter, Jamie sees at once; he wears a simple leather collar and his hands are unbound, for one thing. He stands docile and calm at his master’s side, a faint smile on his face. His eyes are warm, alive, interested in what’s going on around him. There isn’t much that’s fascinating about the slave pens under the Coliseum, but he seems to disagree.

“Stand,” the guard mutters, grabbing Jamie’s arm just below the bandage and hauling him to his feet. Jamie grits his teeth against the pain and fixes his gaze on the floor.

“You did well today,” the factor says. His voice is distant, bored, and Jamie knows that the man wouldn’t be able to identify Jamie by name or even the number in the ledger. He’s only _the one who defeated three-at-once today, in the fight dedicated to the Emperor’s virgin sister._

“You did well and you are hereby rewarded.” Jamie blinks himself back to the moment as the man tugs at the lead tied to the slave’s collar, drawing him forward. “This is your reward—”

One of the guards steps in and unties the lead, then shoves the slave toward Jamie. The slave is agile, catching himself before he falls forward and knocks Jamie to the cot, which is good, because Jamie feels like he’s moving underwater, unable to respond at a reasonable speed.

“Enjoy him,” the factor says. “He’s yours until tomorrow. Try not to damage him permanently, though if you do we’ll just add another fight to your ledger. Not that that bothers you, eh? You were born for this, the gods made you for this, there’s nothing else in the world you can or would do.”

Jamie returns his gaze to the floor. There are many things he could and would do, if he wasn’t here. He remembers clean, cool air, and sunlight on the water, and the call of birds on the wing. He remembers the family home, his parents, his sister. He remembers running along behind Jordie, laughing, calling out to him to wait, to not leave him behind—

The guards escort the factor out and slam the gate closed. The lock falls into place, heavy and dull.

The slave looks at Jamie with steady curiosity. “You killed three? Alone?”

“I didn’t kill the second one,” Jamie mutters. “Hamstrung him.”

“I think they let him bleed to death. I couldn’t see much, but the crowd sounded—”

“I know.” Jamie sits down on the edge of his cot again. “So, you’re my reward.”

“I am.” The slave looks around the room, winking at the fighters openly ogling him. “At your service. Which includes if you’d rather throw me to your friends.”

Jamie looks him over; wiry strength, more muscles than he expects from a body slave, a web of dark tattoos over his arms and torso. “Were you a fighter, once?”

His smile gets a bit wider. “A long time ago.”

“I remember tattoos like that, on prisoners my people brought home from war. When we were fighting someone other than the Romans.”

The slave stretches his arms out and looks down at them, studying the marks on his skin. “I didn’t have many when I came here. My owner had been fighting us long enough to be familiar with them, and thought they made me more distinctive, so he had them finished.”

“So you didn’t earn them?” Jamie reaches out and runs his finger over a line of ink on the slave’s wrist. “Does that bother you?”

“I earned them my own way.” The slave withdraws his arm and looks at Jamie for a moment. “I didn’t pay much attention to the other tribes. Maybe your hair, though? Is that… from home?”

Jamie nods, pushing a lock of grease-heavy hair back from his forehead. He and Jordie hadn’t held on to much from home, but the steady warmth of Jordie’s hand on one side of his head while he guided a knife along the other, cropping the hair down close to the skin, and the carefully whispered prayers the morning of a fight, while they slicked their fingers in grease or oil and dragged them through the crest of hair left on top, holding it back from their faces—he was glad they hadn’t lost those things.

“I thought so.” The slave smiled and took a step closer. “God, you’re big. I would’ve hated to have you coming at me across a battlefield.”

Jamie catches the slave’s arms in his hands, pulling him down onto the cot. “Neither of us has to worry about that, I guess.”

A flicker of disappointment crosses the slave’s face, but he recovers himself and leans against Jamie’s side. “True. Does a fight and a kill get your blood up, gladiator?”

“It’s been hours.” Jamie gets to his feet, gesturing for the slave to turn over on his knees on the cot. “You’ll do fine, though.”

“How can I survive so much flattery?” He’s smiling again, though, as he moves to brace himself on crossed forearms and shove his ass into the air. 

“Leave something for the rest of us,” calls one of the others from across the room, quickly joined by a chorus of agreement.

Jamie ignores them, reaching under first his own tunic and then the slave’s to pull breechcloths away. He spits into his hand and slicks himself, with a few more strokes to stir his body to hard readiness. The slave gives a low, rough grunt as Jamie presses against him and pushes inside, but otherwise is still and silent, body pliant under Jamie’s own. 

Not that the sex is quiet; there’s the sound of flesh on flesh, the creak of the cot, and of course the running commentary from the other men, who all have more than a fair share of opinions about Jamie’s technique, the slave’s responsiveness, whose cock should occupy his mouth while Jamie plows him, so on, so forth. Jamie closes his eyes and tries to block them out by concentrating on the feel of another body’s heat and muscle, the slide of sweat down his own skin, the hitch in the slave’s breath every time Jamie pushes deep.

One of the other men is shouting again and again for Jamie to fuck the slave harder, deeper, as if repeating himself will make Jamie give in. The slave gasps a little, and it takes Jamie a moment to realize he's laughing. "I'm beginning to think that's what he wants you to do to him," he says softly, looking over his shoulder at Jamie. "He wants to be damn sure you know about it, anyway."

Jamie huffs a laugh of his own and slows his pace, trying to memorize the feeling of tight heat around him. He gets offers from the other men; sex is a valuable item of trade in the pens. He doesn't participate often, though. Scarcity adds value, and fucking makes both parties vulnerable. He doesn't trust anyone but his brother, here.

The slave curses in a low voice and pushes back against him. "Take me, don't tease me."

"Maybe I like teasing.” It’s getting more difficult to hold himself back, though; it feels so good, and his body craves release after the adrenaline and fear of the fight and wounding.

He picks up his pace, thrusting harder and rougher into the slave’s body, finally burying himself as deeply as he can and coming with a rough, helpless groan. The other gladiators hoot and applaud, calling out more obscene requests. Jamie tries to ignore them and memorize the moment, the feel of heat and skin and a body touching his that he doesn’t have to try to kill.

He can’t linger long, though; he can already feel the slave shifting under him, trying to find a position that allows him to breathe under the weight of Jamie’s body. Jamie pulls out and away, reaching for his breechcloth to wipe himself clean.

The slave turns slowly onto his back and looks at him. “Are you going to share me with them?” He sounds only mildly curious, nothing more, which only seems odd for a moment until Jamie remembers that he would have the same voice if told he would need to walk over to one of those men, one who slept and ate and trained alongside him every day, and slit his throat.

He clears his throat and drags his hand over his hair, pitching his voice so both the slave and the other men will hear him. “I only share with my brother.”

The shouts of encouragement turn to taunting jeers. Jamie rolls his eyes and makes a rude gesture at them, turning his head toward Jordie’s cot and nodding. Jordie sits up and holds his hand out to the slave, waiting for him to move of his own accord.

“Among our people,” he says, his voice also loud enough for the others to hear, not that it will make a difference, “brothers always share winnings of battle.”

“Oh, then this is an honor.” The slave flashes them both a grin and crawls from Jamie’s cot to kneel in front of Jordie. “My mouth? Or do you want to fuck me, too?”

Jordie presses his thumb to the corner of the slave’s mouth, then slowly runs it in a lazy circle over his lips. “Your mouth is built for this, I think.”

“The gods make us all for a reason,” the slave says agreeably, pushing Jordie’s tunic up his belly. Jordie pulls it off over his head and the slave makes a sound of approval.

Jamie settles down on his cot, shooting another look at the other men to be sure they’re staying well away. He’d made his decision about who he was and wasn’t sharing with tonight; the slave was _his_ prize, and now that he’d laid down the rules he has to enforce them as necessary. He doesn’t want to smash heads or crush throats tonight, but if they move wrong, he will do it.

He hears Jordie’s low, throaty curse as the slave takes him in his mouth; he’s known his brother’s sounds of pleasure since before he learned his own, in the close quarters of their home village. They hadn’t had any pretenses of privacy to lose here in the gladiator pens. He knows at what point Jordie will tangle his fingers in the slave’s hair; he knows which pattern of breath means that his hips are jerking in helpless thrusts as he nears orgasm. He doesn’t have to look away from the other men to know exactly what’s happening at the next cot. It’s comforting. Not exactly the same as when he knows his brother is watching his back, but—similar, somehow. 

He hears Jordie’s breath catch and then, a moment later, steady. “A good prize?” Jamie asks, still not taking his eyes from the others.

“Better than when they gave you that extra share of lamb, and it was riddled with maggots,” Jordie says. Jamie hears the slave’s soft huff of offense, and Jordie’s low laugh. “Sorry,” Jordie murmurs, and Jamie can imagine the gentle touch that accompanies the words--to the slave’s hair, perhaps, or his jaw. “You were lovely.”

“He is,” Jamie agrees. “Are you done?”

Jordie laughs again. “Yes. And he’s your prize, so you keep him in one piece til morning.”

Jamie sighs. “Fuck you, I thought—”

“I’m tired.” Jordie’s tone silences Jamie in an instant; he sounds regretful, but truly tired, and Jamie curses himself for not paying better attention. Just because Jordie hadn’t been wounded doesn’t mean it hadn’t been a hard fight.

“Come back here now,” Jamie says, touching the cot beside him, and after a moment the slave joins him, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

“What do you need me to do?” the slave asks quietly. 

“Just lie down here with me. On this side, so I’m between you and the room. I doubt anyone is bored enough to try anything, but just in case.”

“You carry a good deal of respect in the room.” The slave’s eyes are bright and thoughtful. “And I don’t think any of them are willing to challenge you for rank, at least not yet. If you’re still here in the winter, though, watch your back.”

Jamie looks at him with surprise. “You read people well.”

“It’s useful, in what I do.” The slave smiles faintly. “You should sleep.”

“Yes.” First Jamie checks the bandage on his arm—that it’s still tight, that the flesh hasn’t gone dark or hot around the edges of it. He doesn’t appear to be dying quite yet. Whether that’s a mercy or a punishment, he’ll have to wait to know.

He settles down on the cot, letting the slave arrange himself beside him before putting a careful arm around his waist, both a symbol of protection and a practical offer to anchor him in the narrow space of the bed.

“I’ll look for you at the next games,” the slave says after a moment. “I’ll hope for you to win.”

“From your mouth to the gods’ ears,” Jamie mutters automatically. “I can use the help.”

“The help of a few foreign gods and a slave.” He laughs softly. “Not sure that’s of much use, eh?”

Jamie glances past him, toward where Jordie sleeps, and adds one brother to the tally. “I’ll take what I can get.”


End file.
